How Not To Bake
by Firestar'sniece
Summary: Bucky is mad. He's writing in his journal to tell about his newest frustration: cooking. After all, how hard can it be to bake?
1. Chapter 1: I'm Not Entertained

**I don't own Captain America.**

(Bucky Point of View)

Dear Diary,

My therapist told me it would be therapeutic to take up a hobby. Something about stress relief.

I'm not buying it.

Now that Steve has a full time job to feed both of us, I'm home alone until he comes. I mean, he still takes me to my therapy appointments, but it's a lot for him to do a full time job **_and_** do all the chores in the house. So cooking seemed like the perfect hobby to take up, to me.

Initially, I chose baking, much to Steve's confusion since he knows I don't like to cook, because his girlfriend was coming over. She's always trying to set me up with a dame. I'm not ready for that yet. Don't get me wrong, Natasha's nice, but I miss Steve's old girfriend. Sharon didn't push me like that. It's a pity Sharon broke up with Steve.

I knew, if I tried out baking and it worked, that Nat would have to find another excuse to come over. She wouldn't be able to say that Steve needed help in the baking and cooking department.

It's supposed to be easy. How hard can it be to stir flour and sugar together?

My first mistake, the metal arm is not designed to cook. I found out the hard way. After using my left hand, I accidentally xracked the egg too hard and the shell was pulverised into powder which quickly dropped into the bowl. Oops. Too much pressure. But I assumed that no would notice that pulverised egg shell was included in the mix.

The next mistake: do not use a small bowl. I thought, since all the ingredients fit to the brim, the bowl was fine. It was literally filled to the brim. Then I turned the mixer on.

I could not breathe through the puff of powder for four minutes straight. In fact, I had a panic attack. There's no way Steve's going to notice flour caked towels, right?

Next mistake, I sopped a clean towel in water to clean up my mess. I was not anticipating the stuff to cake up and become a thick slime that hardened into cement. Cement I could not get off the counter and flours without using the strength of my metal arm, which would crack and destroy everything.

Yeah, thanks for the suggestion therapist.

Oh, and by the way, therapist? Your suggestion to write things down when I'm upset and angry is **not** working. It's just making me more mad. And now I've got flour all over my journal and pen.

Thanks, therapist.

Oh, shoot! Steve's home! I can hear the key turning!

What do I do?

If we had a dog, I would blame the mess on him. I'm regretting not getting a PTSD service dog.

See you soon,

Bucky

 **I hope you like the new story!**

 **Since this story is in the form of letters in a diary, the chapters will be shorter than I'm used to.**

 **Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2: Cooking is Beyond Me

**I don't own Captain America.**

(Bucky Point of View)

Dear Diary,

Note to self: there is no way to hide this mess from Steve.

Actually, Steve was somewhat amused. He even helped me clean up. But when he tried to ask me what I was baking, I couldn't really answer him. It was supposd to be a surpise after all.

It's been a few days since my first attempt. Steve is spending most of his time away, unfortunately. Something about making me safer. He won't tell me, but I've heard Nat whisper something about a guy that's supposed to be dead. I think the name is Rumlow.

The name sounds familiar. But Steve won't answer me when I ask. He gets really sad, though.

Meanwhile, it's just me and baking.

Attempt two.

Use six cups of rice.

Huh. I did. And yet the rice crispies turned out hard as rock, burned even.

Was I supposed to cook the rice beforehand?

Attempt three.

Oh, no! How am I supposed to explain to Steve the six pots of dirty dishes? And I don't understand. This is only supposed to take one cookie sheet? How can I possibly fit all this rice onto one cookie sheet? It will take more cookie sheets than we have, even!

Well, it says to put it on one cookie sheet, so I will.

Wow. This is going to be one big rice crispie.

It turns out, it was the size of the interior oven. And it was burnt.

Sometimes I wonder if cooking is beyond me.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. Okay, so I'm freaking out. I'm currently held hostage in my apartment by a big strike team with a burned guy named Rumlow at the head. There planning on taking me somewhere. I don't know where.

Rumlow's letting me write in my journal as a way to keep me emotionally stable while they wait for transport to arrive. He's even amused at my rice crispie creation.

I don't think anyone is going to see my journal, but if you do, Steve, please rescue me.


End file.
